Tin Soldier
by 1shot
Summary: Dean is cold, Castiel is fading, and Sam is surprisingly even keel. Also, someone is raising the dead. Rated for language/violence. Spoilers up to 5.10.
1. Chapter 1

TIN SOLDIER

It starts in a cemetery.

"FBI," they say. "Agents Bachman and Turner." They stand there in their sharp suits, trying not to huddle against the cold bite of the wind, and Sam asks patient questions of the man with the shovel while Dean hangs back, scanning the area and thinking about the warmth of a good whiskey. The open grave in front of them creeps him out, and he's doing his best not to show it.

It isn't that he minds graveyards, really - he isn't four - but he thinks about graves and then he thinks about the way dirt crushed into his mouth, his eyes and ears. He recalls clearly the weight of it, moist and heavy, when mud choked his lungs and forced him to black, earthy silence. He remembers that desperate, crushed scrabble for the surface, for the sudden pale light of the sun.

At least, he thinks, letting his eyes drift over the shining coffin in front of him, he wasn't trapped in a box. That would've been a real bitch.

"So you're certain she was dead?" asks Sam, and the man with the shovel snorts. "I ain't no doctor. But the doctors thought so, and Martin at the funeral home sure as shit thought so, since he swears to high heaven he embalmed the woman."

Sam says something else. Dean is reading gravestones:

_Eliza May Wolcott, Beloved Mother, 1913-1964._

_Jared Everett Johnson, Rest In Peace, 1943-1976._

_Gail Mackenzie, Our Angel. Taken Too Soon, 1989-1994._

There's a small stuffed rabbit left sun-worn and ragged against the granite of Gail Mackenzie's marker. It makes Dean's throat go unexpectedly tight, so he looks away from tilting tombstones and lets his gaze go unfocused. A breeze slips into his jacket, wriggling its way down his spine, and he feels the chill settle deep.

Rows of stone slabs extend before him like dominoes. Cemeteries, he thinks, are for people who live in the normal world. People who have homes and families and health plans and real credit cards. People who live lives that can be remembered.

Dean remembers a grassy clearing, torn trees, a rough-hewn cross.

It does occur to him to wonder what his epitaph might have said, if he'd had one. He wonders what it might say tomorrow, or the day after.

_Dean Winchester. He Saved The World. A Lot.  
_  
That one's been done, though. And Dean's world-saving record is piss poor.

"Bachman," says Sam pointedly, with a trace of impatience. Dean starts and blinks back at his brother. The wind is in Sam's hair. "Agent Turner?"

"We're done here."

"Right." Dean shrugs at Sam's annoyed glance ('whatever, bitch,' say his shoulders), then he gives the undertaker a short nod and adds, for good measure, "Uh... don't leave town."

Yeah. He is the epitome of professionalism. The shovel bites into dirt again and Dean turns to follow his brother out of the graveyard. It irritates him that he has to take at least three extra steps to catch up with Sam's enormous stride. "So?" he says. "What do you think?"

"Let's talk to the guy at the funeral home. And could you maybe get your head in the game?"

"Yeah, well, I'm a little bit fucking distracted by the end of days."

_Here Lies Dean Winchester. Hope He's Not In Hell Again._

In the car, windows up and heat blasting, he can't get warm.

.

The funeral home's chapel is full of flowers. That isn't unusual, really, except that there are a _lot_; they bloom from baskets and wreaths, curl on every flat surface, and they all seem to be the same type.

They're... white. And they have petals.

Dean doesn't know shit about flowers.

He does know that his fingertips are tingling with cold, and keeping his hands in his pockets isn't helping. Also, the choral music playing on background loop is slowly driving him insane, and the funeral home director is only exacerbating the process.

"It was a miracle," breathes the man, not for the first time. He is slightly balding, mid-forties, in a brown business suit. His moustache is probably a crime in at least three states, and his small eyes are fervent and gleaming.

"If you could just tell us what happened, sir." Sam made Dean take point on this one. Dean is going to short-sheet his brother's bed.

"Well, that poor girl was all alone. It'd just been her and her mother, and they weren't local. So I went to the graveside service - it's a professional courtesy, you understand, and honestly I just felt sorry for her." Behind the director, Sam is pacing the edges of the room, peering at a gilt cross as though it might tell him something important.

"Go on," says Dean, and the man shakes his head. "It was just the girl, Father Tucker, and me. And, well - the coffin. The girl - Sara - she was a brave thing. Just stood there. Didn't cry. Except the minute Tucker started to speak, she just - she _threw_ herself forward, before we could - and she said..."

The man pauses. Dean waits with every appearance of patience.

"She said, 'God, no,'" breathes the man, finally. "That was all. She said it again, like - like it was a command, instead of a prayer. And - just as we were trying to get the poor girl off, the coffin lid shook - like someone was pounding..."

There are tears in the man's eyes. "It was a miracle, Agent. I tell you that myself. It was an honest-to-god miracle."

"Where can we find Father Tucker?" That's Sam, making himself useful from where he looms in front of the chapel's small altar. Standing there in his suit and tie, surrounded by flowers, he carries an uncanny hint of death. Dean shoves down a frisson of unease.

The director shakes his head. "Oh, he left. They - Sara and her mother, they got right back in that old station wagon, and they took off. Father Tucker followed. West, I think." He swallows loudly, then turns to the chapel shrine, tracing the sign of the cross in front of himself. "I should've gone too."

On their way out, Dean sucks in a breath of crisp winter air to try and get the sickly floral scent out of his lungs. It doesn't help; he just ends up colder, and he still smells like an old woman's perfume.

"Cas?" he asks Sam, and his brother shrugs, which is as close to acquiescence as he's going to get.

Dean fishes for his cellphone, and tries not to think of funeral wreaths. The cemetery headstones linger in his mind.

_Dean Winchester, 1979-2009. Had An Angel On Speed Dial. Didn't Help._

He is starting to hate winter.

.

The grave near the back fence has been filled in, and the gravedigger's gone off somewhere; now it's just an empty cemetery, except for Dean and Sam and Castiel. The angel stands just inside the entrance, hands loose at his sides, trench coat slightly damp in the cold drizzle. His blue gaze is distant.

Sam rubs a hand on the back of his neck, and Dean fidgets, wishing for an umbrella. He pulls the worn leather of his coat closer around himself, and says, "Cas?"

There's a pause before Castiel turns his head, and then there's that first, familiar shock of contact when the angel's eyes meet Dean's. The intensity of Castiel's stare is a weight; Dean fights not to sink beneath it. "Interesting," comes the verdict.

"We were kind of hoping for something more useful," says Sam.

"We figured zombies," offers Dean, "or - there was this one time, with a Reaper - anyway, we thought you'd wanna hear about the God thing. So, zombies?"

Castiel watches Dean as though he is a puzzle - as though the angel is mentally deconstructing him, putting him back together, trying different twists and turns to make the shapes fit. Dean sucks in a breath, then raises both his eyebrows in return.

"This place is tainted," says Cas, finally, "and also sacred."

"Okay, Sam's right, you are a shitload of help here."

A fine line appears between Castiel's eyebrows, and then the angel looks away. Dean feels simultaneous relief and abandonment. Castiel glances at Sam, then turns his head to skim the cemetery. He lifts a hand, burrowing beneath the loose tie and rumpled white shirt collar; he draws out a glint of metal on a leather cord.

Dean snorts. "Dude. You going to wear my class ring next?"

"Your ring has no particular power, Dean," responds the angel, absently. He holds Dean's amulet in his palm, fingers curled lightly around it, and peruses the graveyard.

Dean feels an added chill that has nothing to do with rain, but Sam beats him to it: "You don't actually think it was God, do you?"

"The amulet is warm," replies Castiel, quietly. "But not burning." Despite that, Dean thinks he sees an extra line of tension in the angel's shoulders. Cas shakes his head. "There is poison here as well. Where did the girl go?"

"We're working on it," says Sam. "West, the guy said."

Castiel nods, once. "Then I'll meet you. West." He's gone before they can say anything else; a drop of water strikes the ground where he stood as the misty drizzle thickens to definite rain.

Dean curses, and he isn't even sure if it's at the angel or the weather, but he pulls his collar higher and he and Sam run for the car.

_Here Lie Castiel's Social Skills. Never Even Had A Chance.  
_  
Cradled icy and wet in the driver's seat, his hands wrapped around his baby's steering wheel, Dean watches the Impala's headlights shine against the falling rain and he still can't get gravestones out of his head.

.

On a hunch, they stop at a run-down farm by the side of the highway; Dean figures the four-foot cross covered in white flowers and stationed at the head of the farm's driveway is a pretty good clue, and Sam is forced to concur.

"She had a chrysanthemum in her hair," says the woman who answers the door. She's about fifty, sturdily built, with a hole in the elbow of her faded red shirt. She peers up at Sam through thick lenses, and her tone is dreamy. "She said they were her favourites. She was an angel, I think."

Dean and his brother are reserving judgment on that, but they let the woman - her name is Gladys - make them hot chicken sandwiches, and they take their coffee mugs out to the barn when they go to see the puppies.

They're just puppies. Mutts, even. Brown, furry, and not even the size of Dean's hand; they have perked ears and lively dark eyes. The little guys gambol over each other, rolling around in the hay; one of them starts chewing on Sam's boot lace.

"It was the saddest thing," says Gladys. "Some idiot just tied them up and tossed them in the creek out back. You know how people are."

Dean curls his fingers around the fading warmth of his mug, and feels the winter frost his bones.

"Drowned," continues Gladys, with soft awe. "I was going to give them a decent burial, at least. I had the sack at the back door when Sara and her mother came knocking. Poor things looked lost - like you boys. And I made them some sandwiches, and I just - I was upset, of course, but when I told them about the puppies, Sara asked to see. I didn't think it was a good idea, I mean, no one needs to see -"

"But she did," interrupts Sam, mildly, and Gladys nods repeatedly, raising a finger to push her glasses back up on her nose. "She did," replies the woman. "And... you see them here."

The puppy has managed to get Sam's lace untied.

"The priest came later, a little after. He said he was looking for them - to worship. That's when I put out the cross - you know. As a sign. With all the flowers she left." Gladys smiles, watery and a little wondering. "Except I think I wish I'd gone, too. Do you think it's too late?"

"I don't know, ma'am." Dean feels bad, the way he sees the woman's eyes just light up. "The mother," he adds, on a thought. "What was she like?"

Gladys thinks about that for a long moment. She reaches down, picks up a squirming puppy and scratches it behind the ears. "Sad," she says, finally. "And maybe a little afraid. I would be afraid too, if my daughter was an angel." She draws in a breath, and shakes her head. "I'm going to pack."

When they get back in the car, doors slamming shut, Dean says, "You didn't."

"Sorry." Sam takes the wriggling animal from inside his coat and examines it, carefully. It tries to lick his nose.

Dean is less of a dog person since the hellhounds ripped him apart. "We are not getting a puppy."

"Look, if this girl is raising zombies, we should probably know if they're going to go all evil. We watch the dog." Sam sets the puppy on his lap and pets it carefully.

"Don't get attached," warns Dean, and he starts up the car, pulling back toward the highway. The puppy yips delightedly, and Dean can do nothing but imagine its tiny white teeth in his wrist.

_Dean Winchester, R.I.P. Second Time's The Charm?_

He is in a fucking fantastic mood.

.

Dean names the puppy 'Sharkbait,' and Sam rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything because seriously, they are not keeping a dog. Particularly not a dog that might turn demonic and try to eat their faces in the night.

They have to stop at a pet store and get a collar and leash and some food. Dean almost makes Sam go alone, but decides at the last minute that he wants veto power on the leash. He makes sure it's a good, solid chain.

Sharkbait wiggles delightedly at every noise, and perks its little puppy ears and sticks its cold puppy nose on the back of Dean's hand when Dean is trying to drive.

Dean turns up the music and tells Sam to keep the damn dog in line.

"It's just a puppy, Dean. I mean, probably."

"It slimed my hand."

It isn't the puppy's fault. Dean knows this. But Dean also can't seem to get warm since the graveyard, and he can't get the taste of mud out of his mouth; it doesn't matter how much bitter drive-through coffee he drinks.

He does drink quite a lot of it, though. Just to make sure.

They drive until past dark, and they don't spot any more helpful crosses or white flowers, so Dean eventually pulls into some nondescript motel and Sam smuggles the puppy into the room. Dean plunks his bag down on the edge of the bed and says, "You're walking him."

"I don't think it _is _a him."

"Gotta be. Sharkbait's a dumb name for a girl." Dean flips open his phone and texts their location to Castiel. "How far behind 'em you figure we are?"

Sam's already getting his laptop out of its case. "Well, the mother was raised three days ago, but - it depends how fast they're driving. And whether we're still going the right way."

"You are," replies Castiel, from just beside the television stand. Sam's hand twitches toward the knife at his back, but Dean pretends not to notice and he's pretty sure the angel does as well. He breathes futilely on his hands, rubbing his palms together, and says, "Find anything?"

Castiel's gaze falls on Dean, steady and unrelenting, and then the angel tilts his head, attention sharpening. Dean is tired and cold and in no mood to be mentally dissected. He scowls slightly against the question the angel is about to ask.

_Dean_, says Castiel's gaze, and Dean glares, _Stop._

He is in no mood for divine bullshit.

"Here," he says instead. "Got you a friend." He leans down, scoops the puppy off the floor, and deposits it in Castiel's startled hands.

The little dog makes a tiny, choked sound; the angel's eyes widen in shocked betrayal, and then Castiel is holding a small, sodden corpse. Dean catches the scents of river water and decay in the instant before Cas flickers away.

"Shit," says Sam, with feeling, and Dean swallows, staring at the wall behind where Castiel used to be. He never wants to see dead puppies in an angel's eyes again.

Ever.

_Here Lies Sharkbait. Oops._

.

Dean steals one of Sam's blankets and then crawls into bed fully dressed, so he can wrap his arms around himself and envision ice crystals forming on his skin. He isn't sleeping when he hears that short fluttering sound and feels the angel's weight depress the mattress at the end of the bed. "Hey," he says, "Sorry."

Castiel doesn't say anything, and Dean lifts his head to check where the angel is sitting, back straight and hands folded, spiky hair rumpled in the moonlight from the window. Cas is looking at him. The angel's presence is simultaneously a reassurance and a brick on Dean's chest. It makes the scar on his arm tingle and itch. "So, we had the dog to find out whether it was evil or not..."

"The one you seek is still west," says Castiel, gravely. "Follow the main highway. But I couldn't get close."

Dean pushes himself up on an elbow, scratchy motel sheets rough against his skin. "Something guarding her?"

"I think she guards herself." Castiel sits very still - the angel seldom bothers to fidget, to do anything with his hands. He seems perplexed, though, and tired in a way Dean does not often perceive. His features are haggard in the dimness. "There is a vortex of power surrounding her," he adds, slowly. "Like the cemetery - sacred and dark. I can't..." Cas pauses for a moment, then his lips thin, and he says "fly," in a way that suggests it was really not the word he wanted, "into its reach."

Dean purses his own lips, a silent whistle. "Got some mojo, then. Okay. So what are we dealing with? I'm guessing the dog was bad news."

The angel is taciturn at the best of times, but right now it's like Castiel is translating everything inside his head before he speaks. "It is possible," he ventures, finally, "the girl works false miracles. My presence undoes them."

Several beats pass.

"Okaaaay," draws out Dean, trying for patience. "Or?"

"Or she works true miracles and I've Fallen too far." Castiel's gaze flicks briefly toward the faded wallpaper, then back to Dean, which is probably the clearest sign Dean is going to get that something is really bugging Cas. He sees a jump in the muscles of the angel's jaw.

"Bullshit. Seriously, dude, no way." Dean's response is instant and honest; something flickers tightly across Castiel's face, and then is gone.

"The amulet warms. But I can't approach."

"Okay - Cas? You need to speak human, here. Is it God?"

He has to wait another fifteen seconds to pry the answer out for that one. "No," says Castiel, carefully. "But it's something more powerful than an angel."

"Fuckin' A. So she's big and bad and ... tainted, okay, whatever. We'll deal." Dean scrubs a hand over his face, feeling rough midnight stubble. "If she's got a no-fly zone, can you get close like a normal person? Come with us in the car?"

Castiel's spine somehow manages to straighten even further. The angel gazes into midair for a long moment, then judges, "Possibly."

"And is that gonna be bad for you?"

Dean adds Castiel's next pause to his growing list of Things That Make Him Uneasy, but Cas says, "I'll make the attempt."

"Fine. Then stop looking like I killed your - " Dean cuts himself off, coughs, and waves a hand, settling back down into the flat pillow. "Don't sit there all night. It's weird. Come tomorrow; bring coffee." He really wants the angel to stop staring at him. There's only so much a guy can take.

An instant later, the mattress corner springs back into position and Castiel is gone. "Great," mutters Sam, from the other bed, but Dean throws an arm over his eyes and doesn't bother answering.

He dreams of his bones cracking in frozen darkness, and a light that burns cold and unattainable in the far, far distance. The language of demons whispers in his ears and Dean wakes shivering to the grey of a snowy dawn.

_Dean Winchester. Cremate Him, Already._

At least it would be warm.

.

Four hours into the next day's drive, they pass through a small town and there's a crowd gathered in front of the church on the main road. "Stop," murmurs Castiel, from the back seat, but Dean already has his foot on the brake - several people in that crowd are holding bouquets of familiar white flowers. In the passenger seat, Sam frowns thoughtfully, resting his hand on the edge of the door.

The people seem random - old, young, formal, casual. Dean shoulders his way through as politely as possible, flashing his fake badge when necessary. Sam trails behind him as they both make their way through the church's front door. Castiel is already inside, waiting expressionlessly, and Dean tries hard not to find that annoying.

The church is set up for a funeral, apparently, judging by the continued plethora of flowers and the coffin on a wheeled stand in the aisle. But the coffin is open and empty, and the line of visitors flows slowly past, people touching the edges wonderingly. The priest who stands there is elderly and balding, paunchy under his cassock, but his eyes are bright and his hands are long and thin, like insects. "... middle of the funeral," he says, to the woman who is asking him. "She and her mother, and Lorne Tucker - the priest from Mixton."

Involuntarily, the priest's eyes flick to the altar and he licks his lips. "Bart's daughter, she was crying at the front, and this girl - this girl in the wrong place, just standing in the aisle, she looked at Eloise and she said, 'One of us should have a father.' And... Bart, he just..." His audience is listening, awestruck and reverent. He turns his head to stare at the coffin, and crosses himself.

"Miracle," whispers a man, and it's picked up, echoed down the aisle of waiting worshippers. Dean turns his head and finds that Sam is at his left shoulder, but Cas has moved - not to the coffin, but to the altar. The angel stands on the lower dais, quiet, partly turned from the crowd. He is looking upward. In the light of a stained glass window, his features are shadowed and drawn.

Dean looks around the church at the wreaths of lilies and black roses, the open coffin with its soft silk lining. He lingers on the framed photograph of the smiling bearded man. Bart, he presumes. He bets Bart had a pretty normal life, before he became a zombie.

_R.I.P. Dean Winchester. Not Normal. _

That's concise.

Dean realizes he has been standing too long when Sam coughs and flashes his badge at a man in a black suit, getting a few steps closer to the priest. "Where did they go?" Sam asks, and the priest gives him an owlish blink. "Bart and Eloise? With the girl. They followed the girl. I only pray to God she comes back for the rest of us, before it's too late."

.

The highway turns into two narrow lanes curving through dead, snowy wheat fields. Signs of the Apocalypse are small, one day to the next, but as the car whips past fields of grey, broken stalks, Dean wonders why no one brought the harvest in. Armies of wheat, he thinks. Abandoned soldiers. He feels a sudden kinship with dried leaves.

Just before the Impala hits the next curl of pavement, Castiel growls, "Dean."

It's so guttural and unexpected, just behind his shoulder, that Dean's hands jerk on the wheel. An instant later, the wheel jerks _itself_, peeling the car to the right. Sam yelps, head banging against the roof as the passenger front wheel hits the drainage ditch; Dean swears, yanking fruitlessly at the steering and slamming at the brakes. "What the FUCK, Ca -"

An old Buick comes speeding around the curve on the wrong side, tires squealing, and it rips through the place where the Impala would have been - it just misses the car's tail lights as it is, hurtling past. "Shit," says Sam, either in amazement or because he's holding a hand to the top of his skull - probably both - but when Dean turns to the back seat, Castiel isn't there anymore.

The Buick swerves sharply to the right, hits the ditch on the other side, goes up on two wheels and rolls into the field, crunching onto its roof. Dean spots a whirl of black smoke that seems far too familiar, and he mutters invectives under his breath; he jerks the keys from the ignition, pops the trunk, and hurls himself from the car, knowing that Sam's echoing him on the other side.

When they cross the road, Dean has a shotgun full of rock salt and Sam has Ruby's knife. Castiel is standing by the overturned Buick, looking down at the broken man crawling in the snow.

Or - not a man, not really, because Dean can see the black in the guy's eyes. But the demon is leaving a trail of blood, bright crimson against the grassy white ground, and its hands tremble as it scrabbles against the uneven slant of the ditch. Castiel is watching it with an air of detached distaste. The angel sets the heel of his leather dress shoe against the demon's throat, and the possessed man stills.

Sam draws just outside striking range and frowns, looking down at that mess of dark desperation. "What'd you do?" he asks Castiel, but before the angel can answer, the demon writhes weakly. "Burns," it whispers, through the man's raw throat, and then Cas's shoe comes down harder and the thing stops talking.

"They were near the centre of her power," says the angel, dispassionately. "Too close."

Dean looks at his brother's rigid shoulders, and then at the stain of demon blood in the snow. He bites the inside of his cheek, hard, and says nothing.

"Burns," mutters the demon again, unmoving this time; its black gaze rolls up, up, up to meet Sam's hard eyes. "Wanted out. Away. That's all. Samuel Winchester - Chosen Vessel - let me be."

It's probably the 'vessel' line that does it. Sam drops to a crouch and stabs downward with the knife, all in one motion. Black mist shudders in the air. Castiel draws his foot back and moves away, without comment, in the direction of the Impala.

There's another hand extending from the Buick's shattered passenger window - a woman's hand, fingers curled, arm long and pale. Dean nudges it as he passes, but there's nothing there to fight.

"Sure you didn't want a snack back there?" he asks his brother.

"Shut up," says Sam, curtly, and lengthens his stride.

_Here Lies Sam Winc _- no.

Even in Dean's head, that shit is not allowed.

When he puts the shotgun back in the trunk, he fishes out a sweater and a pair of gloves.

.

An hour later, Sam reaches forward and turns down the music, dropping Guns'n'Roses to a scraping whisper. Dean grunts, irritated, but his brother cranes his neck around to look at Castiel and says, "So this girl keeps away angels _and_ demons?"

Castiel is back to his position in the centre of the back seat, hands resting unmoving on his thighs. The angel inclines his head, gaze flicking from the scenery to Sam.

Sam stares back at Cas for a beat or two, but doesn't hold it long; his eyes slide to the side. _Amateur_, Dean wants to scoff, but then his brother's looking over at him instead. "What do we do when we find her?"

Castiel watches Dean in the rearview mirror.

Dean knows what Sam is asking. He thinks of Jesse. Wonders where the kid is, and if he's lonely.

He thinks of Gabriel, and is less charitable.

"She could be useful," presses Sam, and Dean says, "Dead puppy, man," like that will settle everything.

Sam sighs, a quick, exasperated puff of air. "If she's not on either side, we should talk to her. You know. _Before_ we do anything." That last is a little bit too pointed, and Castiel's eyes narrow in the back seat.

Sam and Cas have been pretty good lately, all things considered, but Dean still dreads the moments when Sam gets a tight look around the eyes and Cas's chin comes up. They make him feel tired. His hands close harder on the wheel.

But the angel says only, "We can decide when we find her." And Sam relaxes, just a little bit, against the leather upholstery. "As long as we don't shoot without thinking."

Dean can almost dare to breathe again.

Something's been niggling at him, though, and he focuses on the impassive figure in the rearview mirror. "Cas, that demon was in pretty bad shape. We keep getting closer, you gonna end up the same way?"

"They were minor demons," replies Castiel, dismissively. And Dean is under the impression that Cas is not a particularly major angel, but when he parts his lips again, Castiel forestalls him with a calm, "I will endure." The angel goes back to looking out the window, and perhaps it's only Dean's imagination that the lines in his face are deeper.

But Cas really is looking pale.

Dean cranks the music again, and focuses his eyes on the road. The needle on the dashboard speedometer creeps upward slightly as he drives.

_Dean's Baby. 1967-2009. He Took The Car With Him._

That might actually be sweet.

.

When they stop for the night, Dean shuts the car behind himself with a satisfyingly metallic sound. An instant later, he is surprised to hear it open again; he turns, only to see Castiel exiting the Impala like a regular person, unfolding awkwardly from the back. Dean is so used to the angel flitting around that it takes him a moment to process why the sight is strange.

"Dude. She blocking your mojo?"

Castiel clicks the car's door closed, and looks at Dean. The sapphire of his gaze is as dense as ever, immortality yawning, but there are bruises in the flesh beneath his eyes. "We're drawing closer," is all he says. "It would be best not to rest very long."

"We need a few hours, Cas," interjects Sam, pulling their bags from the trunk. "Gotta eat, sleep, shower. And I want to check the news."

Dean turns the shower as hot as it will go, but it still feels lukewarm against his skin. He smells river water; he sees the puppy's bloated little paw.

He remembers the way dirt was jammed under his broken fingernails when he dragged himself out of the earth, and he scrubs his hands until they're red and chafing. Only then does he slam off the water and shrug back into his jeans, shivering, toweling himself off as he paces back to the other room. Sam is on the laptop. Castiel is seated, motionless, in the chair by the window - Dean ducks his head, avoiding the angel's gaze.

"Pizza," says Sam, waving a hand. Dean grunts, but ignores the box; the grease makes his stomach roil. He drops himself down onto the bed instead, kicking bare feet up onto the coverlet. "Anything online?"

"An earthquake in Idaho. Apparently there's a friggin' river of magma just outside Coeur D'Alene. Also some new thing in Moscow where people keep complaining of incessant chanting." Sam makes a face, scrolling downward; he clicks several times in silence, and Dean waits. Cas doesn't seem inclined to contribute anything; the angel is still watching Dean. Dean ignores him.

Almost.

"Mixton," says Sam, suddenly. "That first town? Just got flooded. They're saying the sewers overflowed, except they don't know why."

"Huh. Sounds gross."

"Yeah."

"Does it qualify as Apocalyptic?"

"I'll keep an eye on it. I also emailed Bobby to see if he can turn anything up." Sam shakes his head, then flips the laptop shut. "I'm gonna go out for a bit, see if I can track down some local papers."

"'kay. I'll just... lie here, getting stalked by an angel. Seriously, Cas?"

The angel obligingly and deliberately turns his head to look out the window. Dean fights the paranoid feeling he's just being stared at via reflection instead.

When Sam is gone, the room is very quiet. Dean closes his eyes for a minute or two, but shifts, restless, and ends up looking at the cracked wall instead.

He gets edgy, these days, when he's not sure where Sam is.

He hates that he gets edgy.

"Dean," says Castiel, quietly, and Dean makes a face at the ugly striped wallpaper. "I'm fine," he says, grimly. "End of discussion."

The angel doesn't answer him. Dean takes that as a blessing, such as it is, but after a couple of breaths he shoves himself up on his elbows, anyway. Castiel is still looking out the window, if he's even still paying attention; the angel's stillness is disconcerting sometimes. It's like if Cas isn't focused on something specific, most of him is really somewhere else.

"Hey," says Dean. "If the town got flooded 'cause that chick was there, it means she's evil, right? I mean - it wasn't just you and the dog."

He has the unnerving impression that Castiel comes back from a long way to answer him. The silence hangs. "Hm," responds Cas then, noncommittally, and that's how Dean knows the guy is at least listening. "Okay," he says, in return, and pulls the pillow over his head.

He dreams of Anna in the back seat of the Impala, all red hair and sharp smile - except when he goes to kiss her, she is Jo Harvelle, and Jo's lips taste of grave mold and icy wriggling things. Her bone fingers dig into the flesh of his arm.

_Sleep_, says Castiel, somewhere, and the rest of it goes black.

When Dean wakes in the fading darkness of the approaching morning, he pulls one of Sam's giant hoodies on over his sweater, and Sam says, "Dude, are you sick?" Castiel's eyes flick over; Dean suspects the angel hasn't moved at all from the damn chair, because Castiel does not have hobbies. Except maybe for that skeletal look he seems to have been perfecting overnight.

Dean pulls his jacket on over the hoodie; it's tight, but it'll do. "Fucking freezing, Sam. Cas, you ready? Let's go."

_Dean Winchester, 1979-2009.  
_  
Nothing else. He can't think of anything else today. Dean tastes maggots and tries not to gag.

.

Following a story Sam picks up on the radio, they end up outside a hospital bedecked with white flowers. Dean inhales the stale scents of antiseptic and starch as he and Sam nudge through the crowd at the doors. Castiel has to come with them, suffering bumps and stepped-on toes like an average joe; Sam takes pity on him and cuts in front of the angel like a wedge.

"Oh, she was in terrible shape," says the nurse on duty, shaking her head - and she is a steadfast, stern woman, Dean can tell, but her hands are trembling on the clipboard she holds. "A poor woman who was hit by a bus; she was coding when they brought her in with her daughter. Came straight through the ER, but two feet inside the door that girl just reared back and screamed. I'd never heard such a sound."

The nurse trails off; her thumb scrubs against the edge of her pen, restless. "And?" prompts Sam, gently, after a moment.

The woman blinks, flashing Sam an uncertain flicker of a smile. "And her mother got up off that stretcher and walked out with her," she says, as though it were self-evident. "And... there was a little boy there with a broken leg and a broken arm, and he got up and followed. The man with the kidney stones, the gang kid with the knife in his leg... they all just got up. Mr. Simmons left his oxygen tank behind." She swallows, and adds, with an odd diffidence, "My headache went away, too."

"You didn't follow her," observes Castiel; his regard is steady on the woman, but the nurse doesn't seem discomfited. "Oh," she tells the angel, "I have work to do. I can't be gallivanting every which way, can I?" But she licks her lips, and glances toward the door; something in her eyes is lost and wondering.

Dean hears the sound of an ambulance's wail, distant and muffled outside the ER doors. He thinks of scalpels - the way a sharp blade cuts into flesh. The jab of needles.

He wraps his arms more tightly across his chest, his triple layer of sweater and hoodie and leather jacket, and he says, "Where did the bus accident happen?"

The nurse is surprised by the question; she has to think, tilting her head. Her pen taps repeatedly against her clipboard and Dean has to fight not to snatch it away. "Downtown," she says, slowly. "Outside the cathedral."

At the hot dog cart on the corner across from the cathedral steps, the vendor scratches at his neck and says, "God, yeah, saw the whole thing. Was a tour group or something - came out of the church. Good number of 'em, I was hoping maybe they were hungry, but then this crazy woman just stepped in front of the bus. What a mess. Day before yesterday."

Sam turns his head, as though the street might contain some forgotten clue. "An accident?"

The hot dog vendor sucks air between his teeth, glances at Sam, and says, "Not from where I was standing."

Dean buys a hot dog and piles everything on it, mostly to gross out his brother; he eats half on the way back to the car, but it doesn't get the smell of disinfectant out of his throat and he drops the rest in a sidewalk garbage can. "Two days, huh?"

"Getting closer," says Sam. "Nice job, leadfoot."

Castiel is quiet; Dean braces Cas's elbow for a moment when the angel seems to waver getting into the car, and he settles himself behind the wheel without comment. When the Impala rumbles to life and brings the Rolling Stones blaring with it, though, Dean glances in the mirror and sees Castiel touch two fingers to the bridge of his nose in a manner that seems simply and startlingly human; the hunter thinks of Jimmy Novak, and shivers, and turns the music off.

"_Thank_ you," says Sam, with mock amazement, and Dean shrugs. "Whatever."

_Here Lies Dean Winchester. No More Hospitals._

There's an upside to everything.

.

_... continued in part 2_


	2. Chapter 2

TIN SOLDIER - PART 2

"Crap." Sam flips through a newspaper in the front seat, trying to read by the dying light of the sun. Dean had been thinking about the road, about the hum of tires and the Impala's slight vibration when it pulls left; Sam's voice tugs him back and he glances to the side, cold again. He realizes, stretching his shoulders, that he's stiff. He remembers what it was like, to feel eighty years old, and knows that this is different but can't remember why.

He checks the back seat, sees that Castiel's eyes are closed but doubts that means the angel isn't listening. "What?" he asks his brother, belatedly. Sam is busy peering at small type and cheap newsprint.

"Well, for starters, that church where Bart Arnold was resurrected? Burned down."

"Great."

"Yeah. And Gladys Righton, 56, was found dead yesterday in her car just outside Glansbury," reads Sam, skimming the article. "Witnesses report screaming, and say that she was, uh, mauled to death. Ripped to shreds. But only four dead puppies were found in the car. They're looking for a rabid mother, I guess."

"Shit," says Dean, and Sam closes the paper, looking out the window. "Yeah."

"Glansbury?"

"We passed it yesterday morning."

"Thought so." Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the pavement flow by outside; they are in farm country still, but these fields were harvested, and the world around is white and flat. "Cas, you with us?"

The angel doesn't move, sitting still and tense and sepulchral in the back seat, but he answers steadily, "Yes, Dean."

"Evil puppies. Wasn't just you."

"That is... something of a comfort," replies Castiel, quietly and with a degree of hesitant regret, and Dean thinks it's pretty hard to feel good about murderous baby animals. "Yeah," he agrees, instead. "The world sucks, man."

Sam gives him an odd look, but Dean is occupied - he spots a sign and turns the car off at the next exit, seeking the promised gas station and burger joint. "We gotta stop for a minute. Cas, you want to take a break tonight, or is it better if we keep going?"

He doesn't like the way the angel seems to be holding himself in. Dean remembers that demon, writhing in the bloody snow, just trying to get away from this thing they're dragging Castiel toward.

Castiel's throat works briefly, and then he says, resolutely, "Drive."

"Okay." Despite that promise, Dean pulls into the gas station and parks the Impala by the restaurant's half-lit neon sign; pulling the keys from the ignition, he passes them to Sam and then opens the car door, dragging himself from the front seat. He works at a kink in his knee and scans for signs of white flowers, but thankfully sees nothing but grey slush and twigs.

"You want anything?" Dean asks, poking his head back into the Impala, and Castiel looks up; for a second, Dean is horribly afraid the angel is going to say something honest and impossible, like 'world peace,' but the blue eyes shutter and Cas says, "No."

The angel is a shitty liar, but Dean runs with it anyway. "Okay. Hang tight."

_Castiel. Eternity - 2009. WTF, God?_

He really has to get his head out of this rut.

.

Dean distracts himself by humming song lyrics in his head; he trades barbs with Sam and pores over the map when his brother drives. He drinks coffee, eats fries, glances repeatedly back at the disturbingly quiet Castiel.

He has avoided thinking about headstones for almost half a day when they happen across another graveyard. There are twenty people standing outside the little chapel next to it, waving signs; the place is still cordoned off with yellow tape and police officers in long coats are trudging everywhere.

THE RAPTURE IS HERE, says one sign - the little girl waving it is openly weeping, her face tear-streaked beneath the cheerful pompom of her knit red cap.

PREPARE FOR THE END TIMES, says another, the man beneath it thin and dour; Dean thinks, _no shit,_ and he would make some sort of crack except there are white flowers wound all over the cemetery fence, and he can see the dark messes where holes have been dug beyond, fresh dirt and a whirl of footsteps marring the snow-covered graves.

"Hell," says Sam, slowing the car to look, "I think they dug their way out."

And Dean wants to say, _Hell is right, Sammy_, but he can't, because there's something holding his windpipe shut and he. cannot. breathe.

There is mud and dark agony and the horrible suffering weight of the earth, and the ringing laughter of demons in his ears and the firm hot bloody taste of flesh in his mouth -

- and Castiel's hand on his upper arm, pulling him back, which almost in itself makes Dean fucking _scream_ - the scar jolts like an electric shock - but that is only Jimmy's flesh and the Impala is not Hell.

He isn't in Hell. Not again, not again, _not again_.

"Dean," says Cas, low and ragged from the back seat, and Dean draws a breath.

Sam tears his gaze from the cemetery long enough to give them both a look and grimace, apologetic. "Weird for you, huh?"

"I only rose from the dead," replies Dean, mock casual, "We've all been there, right?" He rolls his shoulder forward, and Cas lets go, subsiding back to silence.

Sam snorts, hands loose on the steering wheel, and shakes his head. "Yeah. Right." He slides another glance at Dean, lingering, but he lets it go.

_Dean Winchester, 1979-2009. Doesn't Get Better From Here.  
_

.

Traffic is getting heavier. Dean sees more and more cars with white chrysanthemums in the windows, or dangling from rearview mirrors; it isn't every car, but it's enough that he notices. It's kind of like driving in a funeral procession. His world narrows to the bumpers in front of the Impala; he hits the gas, the brake, the gas, and tries to keep things smooth because Castiel is looking distinctly fragile.

But he darts through holes in traffic when he can, for the same reason. A horn blares behind him.

"Okay, that guy nearly scraped my door and you didn't even flinch," notes Sam. "What gives?"

"More important things, Sammy." Dean keeps his attention on the road, slow going that it is, and tries not to notice that Castiel has opened his eyes again, sapphire gaze weighing on Dean in the mirror.

"You could have every bone in your body broken and you would still be more concerned about a single mark on this car." Sam is displeased; in the passenger seat, he folds his arms and leans himself into the corner of the door, the better to look sidelong at Dean. "Dean, seriously - you've been distracted since we started this hunt. And if you put on one more layer of clothing you're not going to fit in here. What gives?"

Dean feels his spine go rigid beneath the pressure of their gazes - Sam's brown concern, Castiel's blue clarity. The angel doesn't say anything, but it doesn't matter, because Cas is _always watching_ and Dean is brittle like an icicle.

He cannot handle them both.

"You saying I'm not in the game?" he snaps back, impatient. "We're in a convoy of crazies, trying to find some seriously damaged chick who makes dead puppies kill people, _and_ she's making a mess of Feathers back there, and you want to _talk_ to her and I am apparently still fucking on board with that and by the way, it's the Apocalypse. I'm paying attention, Sam. I'm just cold. Is that okay?"

Speaking of dead puppies, that's about the look Sam gets on his face just before he readjusts, turning away from Dean and pressing his shoulders back into the leather seat.

Castiel keeps watching Dean.

"Go back to chilling out, Cas, I can see your damn hands shaking."

The angel doesn't move. Dean is really on the brink of growling at the guy - and he _knows_ it's irrational, he _does_ - when Sam says, mildly, "I'm not so sure about that anymore. Talking to her, I mean."

Dean draws a breath, and flicks on the turn signal, moving to pass a Kia whose driver really likes going 20mph. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah. Well. We'll figure it out when we get there. If we can get through the damn traffic. We still getting closer?"

That's for Castiel, who nods tightly before closing his eyes again. Dean suspects the angel is gritting his teeth.

"It's not all bad," notes Sam. "At least we don't have to worry about demons." (Or dicks with wings, his glance to the back seat suggests, but there's one they _are_ worrying about, so that one goes unsaid.)

"Small fuckin' favours," Dean agrees, and Sam accepts that as truce.

_Here Lies Dean Winchester. World's Worst Brother_.

He feels a little bad about the snapping.

.

They stop at some random chain coffee shop because it has - well, coffee, but also a wireless hotspot. Dean makes Castiel get out of the car, and promptly regrets it, because the angel obliges him but Cas is moving way too slowly, and Dean has to catch the guy after two faltering steps. He shoves a shoulder under Castiel's arm and props him ungracefully back against the Impala, waving Sam off. "Cas - dude, nevermind. Sam, you wanna grab food, catch the news? We don't want to waste any time here."

The angel's eyes are glazed; even through the layers he's wearing, Dean can feel the heat emanating from Castiel's body. It's the first time the hunter's been warm all day. He tries very hard not to take pleasure in it.

"Honestly, next time just tell me to fuck off. Come on. Back in the car."

The trench coat always makes Castiel seem larger than he is - than Jimmy is, rather, the vessel slight and shuddering. Dean tries to take some of the angel's weight, pressing a hand to the back of Cas's neck so he won't whack his head on the car's roof.

The angel's flesh is practically burning. "Shove over," says Dean, and he clambers in the back next to Castiel; Cas slumps into the corner of the seat, but makes an obvious effort to rouse himself. Pain makes those immortal eyes oddly young, and that is somehow worse than usual.

"You look bad, man. This was a shitty idea. We can turn back, drop you off somewhere."

"No," says the angel, rough but clear, and it's the first thing he's said in hours but there's force behind it. His gaze clarifies, sharpens; Dean is something he can focus on. "She's too powerful for you."

"And you're in great fucking shape. Is this one of those fights that's gonna leave you with your teeth in someone's hair?"

"I'm conserving my energy." Castiel swallows, lips dry, and sits straighter, shoulders peeling away from the seat. "I'll be ready when required." The angel is deathly white, thin and shaking, and for all of that, there is steel beneath the growl of his voice.

Dean is caught by cerulean - by that frank, steady, terrible gaze. He feels the angel's fever radiating all down his side, and for one dizzying moment he remembers that _Hell was cold, Hell was timelessness beyond winter but Castiel had burned and burned_.

Castiel is blood and glory and salvation. Dean closes his eyes, presses a knuckle to his temple and resists the uncanny urge to suddenly wrap himself around the angel's heat and weep like a child.

"Dean."

Castiel's hand wraps around Dean's forearm, around his worn leather jacket, and Dean shakes his head. "Sam's right. I'm in a weird fucking mood." He opens his eyes again, and Cas is just a sick man with unhealthy spots of red starting to bloom beneath the shadows under his eyes. "And you look like a TB patient or something. Relax."

"Dean," says Castiel again, because the angel is not Sam, and doesn't know how to pretend.

"Later," Dean says, and for just one moment he lets himself be tired. "Later, okay? Let's deal with this shit first."

When Sam comes back, laptop and pastries in tow, he reports a news blackout for the whole area. "All the sites are down. Or I see headlines and get 404 errors on the stories. But from what I did manage, that town with the hospital is now infested with rats. Like, thousands and thousands of rats. There was also a report from Bixby, which is just ahead - a woman jumped from a church spire and survived."

"Mom again?" suggests Dean, and Sam sucks on his lower lip. "What I was thinking," confirms his brother. "Couldn't get any details, though. Seriously; I found one mention of a cult roadtripping across America, but it's like the web is eating everything."

"Could she do that, Cas?" But Castiel has his eyes closed again, and doesn't answer. "I'll take that as a yes," says Dean. He touches the back of his hand to Castiel's scorching forehead and frowns, then looks up at Sam. "What'd the mother die of that first time?"

"Heart attack. I mean, if that was the first time." Sam stares at Castiel for a long moment, then shoots a look at Dean, raising his eyebrows.

"We keep going," says Dean. He passes the keys up to the front. "You drive."

Sitting there in the back, sprawled loose by the hearthside heat of a tortured angel, Dean is almost comfortable.

He's pretty sure he could be sent back to Hell for that alone.

_Dean Winchester, Final Score: Devil 2, Angel 1. Sorry, Cas.  
_

.

When the sun has vanished again, and the headlights of the Impala breeze past a sign that says 'Bixby 132,' Castiel tenses and shudders, throwing his head back against the window before abruptly going limp, slumping down where he sits.

"Shit," says Dean, sharply, and he was thinking of formaldehyde and cold autopsy tables but he jerks himself back to awareness and leans over, pressing two fingertips to find Castiel's unsteady pulse.

"He okay?" asks Sam, from the driver's seat, and Dean snaps, "Uh, no, Sam," but that was really unfair, so he takes a second to regroup and then says, "I don't know what's normal for him. We need to turn around."

"Or we're almost there." Sam's hitting the brakes, though; Dean can feel the hesitant slowing of the car.

"Cas? _Cas._"

Dean wraps his hand around Castiel's wrist, squeezing hard, and in that moment the angel stirs; there is a glimmer of white light beneath his lids, too visible in the dimness. When Castiel opens his eyes, they are bright and increasingly terrifying; he looks at Dean and Dean sees power growing, slow and certain and hard. As promised.

"Shit," he says, recalling, and, "Don't. Cas. Don't. No. It's not time yet."

It's a moment before he sees that register; meanwhile, Dean is caught in a vortex of blue and silver light, and he burns, and he _remembers_.

Then a line appears between Castiel's eyebrows, and he frowns at Dean, lips briefly thinning in what Dean swears is long-suffering irritation before the angel lets himself go slack again, head dropping.

Dean is colder than before, but he takes his jacket off and rolls it into a crumpled ball, sliding it behind Castiel's neck.

"Keep going," he says to Sam then, shaking his head. "I don't know. Keep going."

The Impala speeds up again, rumbling through the darkness. Dean is vaguely surprised that the road at this point isn't paved with chrysanthemums.

_R.I.P. Dean Winchester. No Flowers - Please.  
_

.

The chrysanthemums are waiting in Bixby.

They are ghostlike in the darkness, glimmering on streetlights, petals drifting through the air like snow. The winter is chill, but the town smells of flowers and the sweet, sick undercurrent of death. Sam maneuvres the Impala through badly parked cars and a flow of meandering pedestrians.

Dean is not surprised to see the people gathered in front of the big stone church. Sam tries to circle the block, so they can see the graveyard and what they already know will be empty holes, clawed out from below; they get halfway around and then have to stop, because there is nowhere to go and nowhere to park. Vehicles are left haphazardly, some with emergency lights still blinking; people walk by without notice, all heading to the church.

Sam stops the Impala in the middle of the street, and turns off the engine. "Okay. This is nasty, Dean."

"Yeah." Dean does not look at the dark cemetery. He does not shiver, though he has the sudden impression his ribs are made of ice. "Mount up, then. Take what you can fit under your coat; no use freaking them with a shotgun." Sam pops the trunk, and Dean looks at the unmoving angel. Castiel is still and silent under the pale streetlight that filters through the window; his skin is as translucent as the chrysanthemum petals.

"Hey," says Dean. "Chuckles. Time to get going."

Cas doesn't stir.

The ice is threatening to creep all the way through Dean's chest. He reaches out, shakes Castiel's shoulder, watches the angel's head rock back and forth. "I am not kidding. It's really time."

When the angel fails to react again, Dean feels that ice wrap skeletal fingers around his throat. He wraps his hand in Castiel's coat collar, jerking the angel roughly forward. "_CAS_," he barks - and then Castiel's hand comes up, wrapping around Dean's forearm, and Dean grits, "Yes. Now. We _need_ you, man."

The light burns beneath Castiel's eyelids again, before the angel's lashes lift over brilliantly vivid blue. His pupils are gone to pinpricks.

"Okay," says Dean roughly, letting go. "Okay. Hey, we were in Hell together - this isn't that bad, is it?" He huffs out a lungful of stale air, inhales the sick smell of floral decay.

The angel looks at him for a moment, blankly, and then says, "No." His Grace is close to the surface, flickering off and on behind his gaze. Beneath his voice, eternity rumbles.

Dean suddenly has nothing to say.

Outside the car, Dean extends his left hand to support Castiel's elbow and reaches his right for the gun Sam passes to him. He isn't sure what good silver bullets will do, but Sam shrugs at his glance and Dean has to admit it's better than nothing. "Cas," he says, "put your hand on my shoulder." He feels the angel's burning weight shift, descending on him, but Castiel sags like a drunk and Dean gives in, just wrapping his free arm around the angel's searing ribs. He looks up at the church spires. "This sucks. We ready?"

"Uh...we really haven't decided what we're going to do." Sam doesn't really seem shocked by this. To be honest, neither is Dean, and Cas doesn't seem much up to offering opinions.

"Fuck it," says Dean. "Let's just get inside and see how it looks."

"Winchester 101." Sam shakes his head, then checks his knife before tucking it in the back of his jeans. "You get Castiel. I'll take point."

"Pretty much what we're doing, Sam."

"Dude, seriously, shut up."

"Cas, could you maybe glow a bit less?"

Judging by the way radiance leaks from between Cas's lips, the answer is no. Dean finds the intermittent spills of light disconcerting; the air shimmers with power, electric and sacred. It crawls along Dean's skin, setting his hair on end. He is a little afraid that his arm and Castiel's will are the only things keeping Cas grounded. "Okay," he mutters, instead. "Just stay with us."

Cas's breathing is harsh, lit with unnatural sparks, but the angel is a solid, hot weight against Dean's side, and he follows where the hunter guides him. "You better kick this chick's ass," notes Dean, and Sam says, "This way."

The crowd of people is mostly clustered at the church steps. Dean isn't sure how many there are, in the darkness, except 'a lot' - more than a hundred, maybe two - and he isn't surprised to find some of them have clothing marked with dirt. The smell of the grave wafts to him, and he chokes on it, just before Castiel's hand tightens at his collarbone.

"Yeah," he mutters, "Thanks."

At least the recently raised aren't walking skeletons, or rotting corpses. They honestly seem to be just people right now - confused people in outdated clothing, staring up at a towering church spire wreathed with flowers. A woman in petticoats stands next to a young kid in t-shirt and jeans; there are murmurs among the crowd, but mostly it's quiet.

Dean spots a bearded man stumbling oddly at the edge of the steps, though, and he thinks of small canine teeth ripping a kind woman apart.

This could go wrong really fast.

"S'cuze me," says Sam, mildly, taking point as promised. The petticoat woman turns, blinking wide green eyes that are surprisingly and disturbingly cognizant. She looks at Sam, then behind, to Dean and Cas, and she says gently, "Oh. Your friend is hurt." She has an incongruous accent - something European, high-class.

"His friend is hurt," the woman tells the people in front of her, just as sweetly, and the crowd whispers and parts like the Red Sea before them. "Sara," the living and the dead murmur, and there's wonder and satisfaction in it. "Sara."

Sam shoots Dean a vaguely freaked-out look, but he takes the opening he's given and he climbs the stone steps, boots crunching lightly on ice. Dean and Castiel follow after, and it is an eerie testament to the group's fascination how little attention they pay to the guy who is off-and-on bleeding light. They're all busy staring at that church. Dean sees a strand of flowers bloom at the edge of the roof, trailing down to a stained-glass window below.

For one grateful second, he thinks getting inside is actually going to be that easy.

That's until a man in a filthy three-piece suit, ten feet from the front doors, turns and smiles at them when Sam walks past. "Sara will help," he promises, in a voice that is oddly light. "Our angel will heal you."

"Thanks," says Dean, curtly, because he's trying to get Cas up the stairs and also, cursed zombie. That's when the suited man reaches out a hand to help, and brushes too close to Castiel.

When the guy hits the ground, there's a dry cracking sound, and that's when Dean gets the skull he was expecting.

"Oh crap," says Dean, and "Sam!" because they are bringing an angel through a hundred undead and the centre absolutely fucking cannot hold.

A woman in a mud-stained cotton shift goes next, her body crumbling to bone as they pass; Sam turns, expression tight and alarmed, and then the crowd is turning too, eyes narrowing as they focus in on Castiel.

The angel shines.

"Demon!" The shriek comes from a woman three feet away on the steps; she's wearing a red winter coat, her hair half in curlers. Her eyes are wide.

"DEMON!" The crowd takes up the cry; Dean hears it echo. He hears "Satan!" and "Lucifer!" and one sad, lost, "It _hurts_."

"Okay," sighs Sam in that single frozen moment, "that's a little ironic."

Then there are figures reaching, and not all of them are the dead - some stumble and fall away, crumpling lifeless at Castiel's touch, but an angry hand grabs and yanks at Dean's coat, others moving to jerk Cas back down the steps. Sam's trying to get back to them - "Dean!" - reaching out, and that is when Dean discovers that he is not above elbowing an old woman in the face. He feels her teeth crunch. He really, really hopes she is a zombie.

He has no time, though; he feels something gouge into his shoulder, and then he feels Cas being ripped away on the other side; he turns, grabs for the angel's sleeve, feels Sam's hand - he knows it is Sam's hand - on his other arm and then the three of them are a chain, yanking each other roughly up the steps and to the -

"Locked!" The doors rattle. There could not be more disgust in Sam's voice.

"Cas!" Dean just goes for desperation. He's not proud.

Castiel slams his palm against the door; an instant later, Sam yanks it open, fighting against the growing press of bodies flowing up the steps. "Sara!" screams a child, somewhere at the back - and then they are through, and the church is dim and there is blessed empty _space_ around them. Dean and Sam leap back for the door, grunting as they yank it closed. Dean kicks at someone's foot, trying to block, and then the doors bang shut and Castiel touches them again.

They rattle, and hold. Outside, the screams and shrieks are suddenly muffled. The angel leans there, one hand on the lock, breath rasping and uneven. Dean and Sam turn, blinking; the church is dark, even in comparison to the night outside. Occasional candles flicker around the vast perimeter of the room.

"I said no one comes in." It's a girl's voice, young and bitter. Her words are pitched low, but for all of that, there's power in them. She is clearer and sharper than the mob outside.

She is a slumped figure at the end of the main aisle; she sits disconsolate on the steps below the altar. Above her, the vaulted ceiling is lost to darkness, but a single wavering light burns above a crucifix, highlighting the faintest glitter of gold.

She says, quietly, "Go away."

Castiel turns from the door, stepping away from the lock that still rattles with each pounding fist from the crowd outside. In the blackness of the great hollow room, the glow from his eyes is nearly tangible; it makes him eerie, alien. When he parts his lips, light spills forth. Here, in the presence of the girl, the angel barely clings to his vessel. Even Dean can feel the tension of it, as though the air were charged - like the moment just before a lightning strike.

Dean puts a hand out, catching Cas when he staggers.

Another voice breathes, "_You_."

She's close, this woman - so close that both Dean and Sam automatically raise their weapons, startled and off balance. The woman emerges from the darkness of the pews, and she steps toward Castiel with nothing but relief in her face. She might be forty; her red hair is long, unkempt, streaked with grey. She has pleasantly round features and smile lines around her eyes, but there is no curve to her mouth. Her voice holds both sorrow and hope.

"Oh, God," she says to Castiel. "You came. I prayed you would come. Sara..."

At the altar across the room, Dean sees the sudden glitter of eyes in the dark, as the girl raises her head and says, blankly, "Really?"

The woman takes another step toward the angel, and Dean and Sam both shift to intercept. "Please," says the woman, immediately, and she raises trembling hands, palms outward. "I couldn't... please. Oh God. Please. This has to stop."

"Dean," says Castiel, and the angel is having a difficult time controlling his voice, because the scraping sound of it makes Dean feel as though his ears are just this shy of bleeding. He shudders, and steps aside. After one dubious glance, Sam does as well - though he still has Ruby's knife ready and waiting.

"Mom. I don't think -" That's the girl; Dean sees her shift, weight changing as she prepares to stand.

"I love you so much, Sara," says the woman, quietly. She smiles at Castiel - in that moment, when the creases deepen around her eyes, she is as radiant as the angel. "I knew you'd come," she says. "I loved you, too."

Castiel's shoulders stiffen at that - but Sara's mother is already moving forward. She steps into Cas's space, hands reaching forward; she smiles, still, bright and peaceful.

She kisses Castiel.

And then she falls, heavy and boneless, to the floor. Dean smells formaldehyde, knows the absolute limpness of death. The angel does not move - neither to deny the woman, nor to catch her. Castiel's brows are drawn down. The light in him flickers, as though the dead woman has taken something from him; a moment later, he folds at the knees.

"_Shit_," says Dean, and then he is there on one side and Sam is on the other, and they are trying to hold up an angel while not tripping over a corpse, and there's something bleak and terrible waiting for them just up the aisle.

Maybe Cas won't go nova, thinks Dean. Maybe he'll just gutter out, like a candle.

The angel is heavy and hot. Dean is made of ice and the breath of graveyards.

"She won't stay down." Sara hasn't moved. "She keeps trying. I did too, once." The girl's voice is drawn and weary. They all stand in silence for a moment; Castiel's rough breathing echoes from the tall ceilings. Outside, the crowd is still hammering at the door. Dean hears glass break somewhere in the back of the building.

Sara adds, "You're not really my father."

Dean blinks. Castiel's chin comes up, his glowing eyes fixing on the figure at the end of the aisle. "No," agrees the angel, in a voice like a mountain falling. The Winchesters flinch. When Castiel shifts to step forward, though, vessel clumsy and faltering, the brothers move with him. It's awkward - Sam is too tall. Somehow they manage, Cas's smaller form balanced between.

"We were looking," says Sara, softly, as they play escort up the aisle. "We've been looking for so long. And I know you're not him. But you _are_ an angel - aren't you." It isn't a question. "And... you two. You two are strange."

"Uh... I'm Dean. My brother, Sam. And Cas."

Sara replies, simply, "Hi."

It seems more than a little incongruous, having this conversation as they drag a half-conscious angel through a church and leave this girl's dead mother at the entrance.

At least, Dean hopes she's still dead. A glance behind reveals that the body hasn't moved.

The light above the altar gets a little brighter as they approach; Dean suspects that's the girl, though he can't be sure. Sara is not what he'd expected. She is a teenager, maybe just shy of nineteen or twenty. Her hair is the same red as her mother's, and it is frizzy and held in unruly braids. She has freckles, and acne. She wears jeans and an old yellow t-shirt, and her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen.

"So," she says, from her seat on the velvet-covered step, "Would you kill me, please?"

Sam says, "Hey. Whoa."

Sara looks at Castiel. The angel would not be standing without a Winchester on either side; his weight hangs, his head lolling forward. Light flickers weak and unsteady behind Cas's half-lidded eyes.

"Dude," says Dean, sharply, "shape up. You promised me you were on board for this."

He hears something raw in his voice, and swallows. Over Castiel's head, he meets Sam's eyes.

"I'm poisoning him." Sara's tone, too, is wounded. "He's not my dad. But he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen, and I'm killing him just by sitting here." More glass breaks in the back; Dean hears muffled voices. Sara turns her head, makes a gesture with her hand; a door slams shut. "I won't let them hurt you," she adds. "But I'd really appreciate if you could make this quick." She's looking at Cas again; her eyes are green and intent.

"Look," tries Sam, "I can see this is rough for - it's the Apocalypse. This is the Apocalypse. We could maybe use your help."

The girl barks out a laugh, quick and razored. "My _mom_ -" Her voice breaks. She looks away, toward nothing.

"I'm tired," she whispers, and her eyes shine with unshed tears. "I thought I could - I hate - they're all out there now, looking to me to _save_ them, and I_ can't_. I keep bringing Mom back, and she hates it, and I can't stop anymore and there are so many and if you don't stop it for me I'll do it again and again and again." Sara swallows, rocking back and forth there at the altar steps, and she adds, broken, "I'm making everything worse."

The girl's hands are wrapped tight around her knees, white-knuckled. "I'm hurting everyone."

Then she looks at Dean - directly at Dean - and she adds, quietly, "You understand."

Dean's heart nearly stops. "What? Hey, no. I, uh -"

"You," says Sara again, voice edged with grief, "understand." There is no light in her eyes, but they burn as terribly as Castiel.

Dean stares into her face, and he sees ... emptiness. Despair.

Sara knows the cold darkness of the grave. Sara sees only a bleak and awful future. She is eighteen years old, and her teeth are crooked, and the world has hollowed her out.

Yeah. He can understand that.

He can fall into it, if he tries.

Castiel's fingers dig into Dean's shoulder, hard and scorching; the angel straightens, pulling his weight away and shoving Dean two steps back. The hunter stumbles and shakes his head; away from Castiel's fever, he is freezing again.

"... Dean?" Sam looks from his brother to the girl and back again, uncertain. His hand loosens on Castiel's trench coat.

"Yeah," says Dean, watching. "It's okay, Sam. It's her choice."

All he sees in Sara's eyes is gratitude.

Castiel wraps both of his hands around Sam's arm and lowers himself carefully to one knee, just in front of the girl. He lets go of Sam entirely, then says, roughly, "Go." His voice makes the distant candles gutter and glow. In the dark, his light is reflected from Sara's waiting face, like a benediction.

Sam, hovering, looks like he wants to say something - anything - but he has no idea what, and all he can do is hold a helpless hand toward Sara and look at Dean. Dean can only return his brother's conflicted regard, and swallow.

Dean concentrates, really hard, on Sam.

"I'm sorry," says the girl, and her breath catches; her face twists just once with the sob that wants to come. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Dean sees Castiel's knife blade gleam.

Sara whispers, "I wish my father had come."

Then there is sound, a tsunami roar that swamps the world; there is brightness that eclipses everything.

Dean finds himself lying on the ground next to the Impala, his head pillowed on his brother's calf. He is wet with snow. The streetlights have all shattered and broken; half a block down, the church is on fire.

He hears screaming, and closes his eyes again.

.

Dean wakes at dawn, tucked into the back seat of the Impala and halfway across the state from Bixby. He has four different blankets thrown over him, and he is too warm.

He sits up, and Sam reaches back, handing him a coffee. Dean kicks the blankets to the floor and sips.

The miles roll by outside.

Eventually, he says, "Cas?"

"Don't know." His brother keeps his eyes on the road, tone apologetic. "The church was mostly bodies. I couldn't get in. And we seriously had to jet, Dean, because what he did - I figured it wasn't long before something else swooped in."

Dean nods, and rolls the styrofoam cup between the palms of his hands. Finally he stretches out his shoulders, and makes a face. "Guess we left a real mess behind with that one."

"Yeah." Sam glances back, gives his brother the once-over. He's not really subtle about it. "They'll explain it away. Or they won't. I mean, it's the end of the world, right?"

"Someone should know." Dean looks out the window, sees trees and snowy grass. To the east, the sun is rising in a clear, bright sky. "Hey," he says, "could you pull over a minute?"

Sam does, without asking why; the car slows, tires spinning over gravel as it stops at the side of the road. There's nothing around but light forest. Dean opens the door and gets out, drawing in a lungful of edged morning air. "Give me a few minutes," is all he says, easily. "M'gonna take a walk."

When his boots crunch in the snow, he hears Sam's phone ring. He keeps walking.

The forest is not thick, but there are enough dead leaves still clinging that it isn't long before he can't see the car. Dean stops, leaning his back against a tree trunk; it's winter-cold, but not too bad. He studies an old nest in the branches above.

He doesn't twitch when Castiel appears beside him. The angel is back to his usual rumpled self, standing close enough that the hem of his coat brushes Dean's leg.

"Hey," is Dean's greeting. "All fixed up?"

"You should keep going," says Castiel, evenly. "The events at the church will draw too much attention. I'll guard your trail."

"Yeah, I'm fine, thanks. Sam too." Dean reaches up and plucks a withered leaf from the tree, crumpling it to dust between his fingers.

When the leaf is completely gone, he enquires, "So she was an angel's kid?"

"I believe so."

"But not yours."

The look that Castiel gives him could not be flatter. Dean smiles slightly. "I might've guessed that," he says, "from the whorehouse. You know, dens of iniquity and all."

Castiel stands in the snow, hands at his sides, and flicks his gaze briefly to the ground. "Gabriel's," he says, answering the unasked question, "if anything. She wasn't prophesized." His attention moves back to Dean; his eyes are only blue again, no ethereal light within them. Somehow, that doesn't make his stare any less disconcerting.

"But, I mean... if Jesse was the Antichrist, shouldn't she have been the, uh... Anti-antichrist?" Dean is pretty sure there's a better word for that. But he gets the feeling he is being evaluated, and he squirms a shoulder against rough bark.

"They're abominations," murmurs Cas, and perhaps there is regret in it. "Forbidden. Each different, and unpredictable. The Nephilim of the past -"

"Of the past? This happen a lot? You guys what, just come down and get it on?"

Dean's question does not impress Castiel. "In your ancient times -"

"Toga style?"

Cas stops talking. He just stands there, staring at Dean.

Dean looks back. He lasts a good twenty seconds before he has to drop his gaze, which is pretty good in his books.

"I'm okay," he says. "I am. I'm not cold anymore. Did she, um... that was her, right? Making me feel that way."

Cas keeps watching Dean. He says nothing at all.

The silence extends a little longer than Dean is comfortable with.

"Dude -"

"Go north, Dean. Tell Sam. I'll meet you when I can."

"Yeah. Okay. Take care, all righ-" The angel is gone. Dean isn't remotely surprised.

He sighs, scratching at his neck, and he looks around at the tall trees. The morning sunlight filters through, setting the snow sparkling. Castiel has left two precise footprints behind.

Hunters are buried in places like this. Dean thinks it wouldn't actually be so bad. Clear away a few trees, fashion a twisting cross.

_Here Lies _-

"Dean." Cas is back, just behind his left shoulder. The angel's breath is warm on his ear. "Stop it."

Then Dean is alone again, with frosting breath and the distant chirp of birds. The corner of his lips twitches, involuntarily, and he shakes his head, straightening from the tree. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he retraces his steps to the roadside, where the Impala's sleek black metal glimmers in the sun.

Sam is waiting.

.

.

_Author's Notes:_

_1) I wrote this for REB Jenn. The blame is hers.  
_

_2) Thanks very much for the kind feedback! It is always appreciated._

_3) I actually did write this as a oneshot but it was just too unwieldy to be a single chapter. I realize that my username is now a cheap farce; somehow I must learn to live with the shame._


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